I am having a raskolnikov-chewing-bones-in-his-draughty-St-Petersburg-garret moment right now. The mateys are gone. The neighborhood is eerily quiet. I am trying to get myself out of the door and into the world. Obviously I haven't yet succeeded. The thing that I loved about Raskolnikov as a young adolescent, was that his major torments were self-induced. He wanted so badly to blame someone else, but he couldn't at all. He was just a loser. A brilliant loser. The ending is so great, too. He finds Jesus and then get shipped to the gulag. I think it would be a great musical.
Hmm, maybe staying up til 2 last night reading "David Boring" by Dan Clowes wasn't the best thing for my outlook on this grey, silent, Sunday morning.
I have been getting strange messages on my machine from an old lady who wants me to draw animals playing intruments. I am hoping the pay is good and she wants them to look like Tenniel. Ooh, or even better, maybe she wants me to work a la Gorey. Now that would be cool. But the real kicker, is that whatever I do, it will look like a moi. I can't help it. This might be my first professional illustration gig. But it prolly won't. So that is the first order of business... I need to find her residence in the wild hills of Big Shaft. But mapquest hasn't heard of her street at all. I think that is a bad sign.
I have work to do... ta ta